User blog comment:Bartholomew Billberry Bowstring/Mossflower Country & Beyond/@comment-3135907-20110805165539

At noon 1,500 Juskalur break camp and march into the north sands.
 * Rultnag's crony, a little weasel named Ficclu, has been placed in charge of camp supplies and food wagons, and is riding aboard one such wagon at this very moment, popping grapes into his greedy gullet. He pours a beaker of ale down his parched throat and chuckles, calling to one of Rultnag's other cronies, Flyngall the rat, over to his side aboard the scoff wagon. "Lookit th' size o' this cheese!" cries Ficclu, jamming as much of an enormous cheese wheel into his mouth as he can. "Ha," says Flyngall. "Yew ain't seen nothin'. Lookit this barrel." Flyngall upturns an entire keg of ratbrew into his mouth but also all over his face and scrawny chest. His throat bobs as the strong beer pours down into his thieving stomach and he belches with delight as he throws several muffins in after it. "Ey, tell yer liddle wives 'ow good all this scoff is," Ficclu says to the two otters pulling the wagon.
 * "They made it after all, heeheehee!" Flyngall finishes for the weasel, jamming tarts and apple crumble into his maw.